By eight o'clock, Kenyon had settled on an officer from the Sci and Support Services branch. The man's name was Moore, an Irish name. He phoned Moore's acting section head, cited his authorisation and asked him to hunt down his quarry. The night-duty man was back in ten minutes. Moore had been in his flat. He'd be in Century House within a half hour.
Bowers had given him seven names. Moore was the only one who had articled at law. At first Kenyon could not understand why a barrister would drop a practice and join MI5 unless he had been groomed as an undergraduate.
He noted that Edward Martin Moore had been recruited by the Service six years ago and had climbed four grades since entering. Although he was given field training during his probation period, Moore had been posted to Sci and Support section. He had used his legal training only occasionally since joining. Moore came from landed money, a farm in the home counties. Evidently he didn't need a barrister's income. He may not have wanted to do law in the first place. His forte at the moment was protective security measures in British university laboratories where Defence work had been farmed out.
Moore was unmarried. Both his parents were alive. Moore had toured Australia and the Far East before joining the Service. No Army or Territorial service. Probably not a boy scout either, Kenyon mused. An able administrator, lots of liaison with intelligence services in Europe, some with the Yanks. No tricky stuff with arms or poisoned pens. Moore spoke French and "had a conversational facility" in German.
An administrator? So what? All Kenyon wanted was an astute, observant man to get close to the investigation in Ireland while he settled Combs' affairs. Then, if and when the police found a written record of Combs' rambling, Moore could be on the spot. With good timing, he could well get his hands on it before the police did. If the police found anything first, Moore could push hard with a legal approach and lay claim to papers as effects of the estate. If the Irish police balked at that, what then?
Kenyon's stomach, rising slightly in reaction to the question, signalled something which didn't need to be otherwise articulated. Throw more legal pepper around, bafflegab? Make a diplomatic kerfuffle about getting the papers back intact, unread? Fat chance… There'd be leaks from any Irish copper who'd read that stuff. But at least there'd be nothing in their possession to substantiate rumours. QED?
Kenyon shifted in his seat at the thought of going blind into that dark room which constituted "Anglo-Irish co-operation." It was a phrase as unlikely as anything he had come across. The blunt facts had to admitted: Combs' solecisms could easily become a stick to beat the Brits with, if indeed the Irish read them and took them as fact. All it would take was a nationalist-minded copper there to turn them over to a journalist. The timing couldn't be much worse with negotiations in the balance. Had Combs known that…?
It dawned on Kenyon that this possible outcome was why he had had such ready access to C. It was a good bet that C had realised how much could hinge on this if his, Kenyon's, evaluation was true. No wonder Robertson had worn that stoical face at the meeting, probably hiding an anxiety which he didn't want to rub off on Kenyon.
Bowers distracted him from his gloom.
"Found reference to your chap in Dublin, sir. That copper. Minogue, as in rogue, I believe. I found him in an Army Intelligence Report from four years back. There's more to him than that, actually. Seems he was on the spot when our Ambassador was killed. Minogue was part of the police guard in a convoy, following the Ambassador back to his residence. Do you remember?"
Kenyon did.
"Minogue was almost killed in the bombing. The Irish police took him back after a spell in hospital, and he showed up again when he was seconded to their Murder Squad. I don't know why. Minogue almost got himself peppered rather severely by our army unit at the border. Apparently he tried to intervene in a tip-off situation, a set-up with a car suspected of carrying IRA weapons. The Irish police gave us a hands-off, and they trailed the car from their side until it got to the border. A young woman, a student, was killed in the car when the driver tried to run the Army check-point."
Bowers stood by Kenyon's desk, one hand pocketed, the other holding a notepad which he referred to occasionally. His brow wrinkled as though he were reporting something regrettable. Kenyon sighed as he launched himself up from his chair. All he could conclude was that the policeman investigating Combs' death was not an off-the-shelf copper. He looked out the window. It was one of the rarest of summer evenings. The sky had been cloudless all day and now only the tops of the taller buildings remained in the sunlight. Bowers was still standing by the desk when Kenyon turned from the window.
"Come with me when we go to see Moore. Keep notes and type them up before you leave this evening. I'll be briefing him later in the meeting, but you needn't stay for that part. He'll be coming here tomorrow morning after we run up a background for him. A good, staunch firm of barristers and solicitors will be dispatching our Moore to Dublin within twenty-four hours… to recover our dirty linen." spacebarthing
A half hour into the meeting, Kenyon, Bowers and Moore were served weak tea and ham and cheese sandwiches. Kenyon had found himself looking into Moore's eyes whenever Moore was talking. He was trying to figure the man out. Save for under his eyes, Moore had a pallid complexion. There were dark saucers there, signs, Kenyon guessed, of a heavy reader whose habits taxed his capillaries. Moore looked anywhere between thirty-five and forty-five. Kenyon remembered seeing him somewhere before, probably in a pub crowd around Christmas or a retirement do. He read Moore for an academic despite the worldly and even raffish hints which Moore's file had suggested to him. Moore didn't smile much. He carried signs of the self-contained, which many would interpret as arrogance or being wilfully remote to affect some superiority. It was as though there were a slight draft off Moore, cool and with the prospect of a chill if circumstances drew him to disapproval. Moore fitted, all right. Kenyon was searching for a sign that would tell him that Moore was wily as well, behind the facade of being distant.
"Absolutely," Moore said without enthusiasm. "It's quite routine, here in Britain anyway. For all intents and purposes, Mr Combs has died intestate. If he has left a will with someone and it shows up later, while I'm there, even, I'm still intact. I'm acting for the estate, appointed by the bank."
"Right. That was how I saw it," said Kenyon.
"But the business about looking over police shoulders in Dublin?" Moore probed.
"You'll have to be versatile," Kenyon said. "Get your feet moving under you when you land in Dublin. Play it by ear. Get close to the chief investigating copper."
"I'll have to tell the police there that I'll be approaching people who are involved."
Kenyon nodded. They fell silent for a moment.
"Remember," Kenyon said as he reached for the teapot, "we're looking for something he concealed. Papers, a tape cassette even. Concentrate on finding a person that Combs trusted. Will this person come forward now because Combs so instructed him? We don't know. There may be a time lag where Combs posted something, to himself even. It's very unlikely he posted it abroad."
"No friend, no one he trusted?"
"No. That's part of the problem. His link was a Second Secretary, Ball, in the embassy. Ball would be the last person on the planet that he'd leave anything with."
"I expect I'll have to effect entry to the premises," Moore said, dryly mimicking his former profession. "Legally, I mean. The embassy. Do they-will they-know me there? Do I need a contact there?"
Kenyon sat up slightly in his chair.
"Yes. I'd prefer otherwise. We'll give you a link to a staffer in the embassy. He's not your control, remember. He's last-choice support if you need it."
Kenyon glanced from Moore to Bowers and back to Moore.
"Before you go, I want you to be aware of what our situation is," Kenyon continued. "What your overall guidance should be, who you're working for and why. We in this section are finally responsible for keeping our civil servants, our senior civil servants, out of the way of whatever may compromise them while they pursue their duties. If it smells really badly, then they have to go, but at the right time, with minimum fuss, with the best timing. There'll be time enough for drinks in the pub with our, er, friends in the F.O. After we settle the matter. Let's soothe any ruffles then, but for the moment this is our show. The Home Secretary knows what we're trying to do. We know for certain that some staff in our Dublin embassy are under surveillance from Irish police intelligence. That doesn't matter. If nothing else, it'll help prevent the IRA taking potshots at our staff. Just be aware of the context if you have to go to the embassy for some reason. Remember: our show."
Moore nodded and looked off into the middle distance as if considering the aftertaste of the tea. Kenyon looked at his watch.
"Travel under your own name. You'll have no problems. You'll be working for the bank's law firm. You'll have your cards, stationery and credentials. If the Irish police check on you here, all inquiries will be handled by the firm. I expect you know from your own work that several of the principals were in the Service and that they have done work for us before. The firm helped to set up Combs as an entity, so he and his affairs will not be unfamiliar to them. Have no concerns about that, you'll be well covered from this end."
Moore shrugged. His hand strayed lightly over the sandy hair. For a moment, doubts wormed deep in Kenyon. He searched the face opposite him. Moore, parachuted into an operational role, this time as a lawyer; whatever field instincts he may have had rusted by now. But the assignment didn't require James Bond; just someone who was observant, methodical. Was that enough? Moore interrupted his drift.
"I'll need a letter of authorisation, an introduction, as well as proof of accreditation here."
"You'll have them by the morning. Draw what you need to get settled into a hotel there. We'll book you on a Dublin flight tomorrow, mid-day. You'll have your letters and background paperwork waiting for you here. Briefing at seven-thirty. Any difficulties with this schedule?"
Kenyon thought he saw a smile start on Moore's features, but he couldn't be sure. Moore shook his head once.
"We'll get you to Heathrow. Run yourself up a three-piece pin-stripe or something. Don't bring a bowler hat to Dublin, though. Only the Orangemen wear them there."
At least Bowers smiled. Kenyon gestured for him to leave. Moore sat gazing at the tea-tray. He didn't acknowledge Bowers' leaving.
"Now, I know it's short notice and all that," Kenyon began in a conciliatory tone. Moore looked at him as though to agree, but with a heavily ironic emphasis.
"I expect you want to know more about Arthur Combs and why we're falling over our arses trying to get at him now that he's dead." spacebarthing
Minogue's mouth was chalky, cloyed from the anisette. Iseult and Pat were in the kitchen now, as was Kathleen. They were drinking mugs of tea and attacking the leftovers of the Bewley's cake.
Minogue poured himself more tea. It turned out to be the bottom of the pot. He filled the kettle from the tap. While he waited for the kettle to fill, he tried to look through the blued reflections of the kitchen which came back to him from the window. He could make out the bushes and the grass where the kitchen light reached. His own blurry shadow, fattened, lay in the distorted rectangle of yellow light. The shrubs beyond the light were faint but dense masses, as if the night had clumped them there, giving them a protective bulk. Was there no moon? He didn't see one, but he did notice a slight fan of blue behind the tree at the end of the garden. Would that be the beginnings of the moon he wanted? Combs, coming home in the darkness to a lonely house. A bit unsteady on the legs after a few drinks? Didn't notice anything amiss. Was there someone with him, a boyfriend? The anise had stilled Minogue, making his movements laborious. He knew it was a fake sleepiness. He wondered what the night-time was like at Tully, the whorls on the stones now faded into the shadow, the ruins no longer standing out against the sky.
The kettle filled, he placed the lid on and plugged it in. How does one draw or paint night anyway? Anytime there was a bright moon Minogue could not resist turning out the lights in the room to admit the moonlight. Moon, luna. Lunatic.
"Don't be falling asleep there, Da," Iseult said.
Kathleen resumed her interrogation of Pat. She asked about his brothers and sisters. Pat likely knew that this wasn't the first time he'd have to account for himself and his background to his girlfriend's mother, Minogue thought. Mrs Hartigan, the housekeeper. How could she not notice if Combs was homosexual?
He unplugged the burbling kettle and poured a little of the water into the teapot to scald it. Minogue would only drink tea that had been drawn in a fresh pot which had been scalded first. As he poured the tea, he tried again to shake himself of the passport photo: Combs' flabby, tired face, those candid eyes staring into the camera.
Minogue allowed himself an hour and a half of Tuesday morning for the State Pathologist's report, additional pages from Garda Forensic and the State Lab, and typed-up reports based on interviews done by Gardai in Stepaside. Arthur Combs had consumed approximately four small whiskies and one, perhaps two, half-pints of beer in the two hours before his death. Fond of it? Minogue wondered. Murtagh's trips to the gay bars had produced nothing. Only one pub had phoned back when the new shift had had a chance to see the photo of Arthur Combs. A barman in Lydon's pub thought that an older man, like the one in the photo, had come in some Friday nights over a year ago. If his memory was good-and Minogue couldn't silence the cynical gargoyle within-the man had read a sporting paper, probably horse-racing, and had left the pub after a couple of drinks. Alone. What next? the gargoyle whispered. Go to all the bookies in Dublin? Another motive for doing in a man who owed money to a bookie? But no, Minogue realised: Combs wasn't short of money. Horses, a little betting. Tinkers?
He rang Stepaside station and asked for Driscoll.
"One Michael Joseph Joyce, sober," said Minogue. "Reliable, usable testimony. It may be twelve and me getting there but…"
"No bother. He can cool his heels here."
Minogue turned to the forensic report. No pressure prints or UV traces of prints on victim's skin. No cord, twine or string of any description found on premises. Shoe-prints in the laneway matched brogues found in Combs' kitchen. Thirty-seven recoverable prints lifted from kitchen. Twenty-two from Combs, twelve definites from Mrs Hartigan, awaiting more intensive comparison checks on three marginals. More from the car and other rooms in Combs' house. All matches to Combs, none pending even. Tire treads that matched the radials on Combs' Renault. Didn't trust himself to drive up the narrow laneway after a few drinks? Didn't mean that no other car had parked in the laneway, Minogue brooded. Clues like asymptotes: nowhere he could see. Ahhh…
He phoned the Garda Forensic Lab and listened for almost twenty minutes while he was told much the same as he had read. Still no prints outside of Mrs Hartigan's and Combs'. Only eight pending for matches now. Any amount of ones smudged, unrecoverable. No, no one had done the end of the laneway. Why not? It was examined and found to be virtually all stones coming up through the soil. No tire marks visible. Clothes, any struggle at all, nails? No. Had to be something in all these pages, some clue.
Michael Joseph Joyce, itinerant, age thirty-eight, currently residing in Heronsford, Ballcorus, Co. Dublin. Married, wife Josie (Josephine), seven children. Minogue pushed away from his desk using his knee. He didn't get far. One of the rollers under his chair was seized.
"Tea, your honour," from Eilis, by his side. He hadn't heard her walk over to him. Smoke followed her and began to settle on him, a smell from the Levant. A souk, coffee-like tar in thimbles? Maybe a stone-flagged square with gristled and moustachioed men at dusk. Anatolia, Minogue wished. Wouldn't mind being there.
"Thanks, Eilis."
Eilis slouched back toward her desk. It was a quarter after eleven. It had been lashing rain since Minogue awoke at six.
Joyce: no relation to the one writing the dirty books beyond in Paris, of course. Joyce is a Galway name. Galway is the City of the Tribes. Travellers, itinerants, often converged on Galway city, the gateway to the west. Michael Joseph Joyce had been found malingering around the outside of Mr Combs' house by a member of the Gardai. Garda Eoin Freely was answering a telephone call from a concerned citizen, one Brian Mahon, who happened to be driving by with his brother. Happened to be driving by? Mahon lived in Stepaside. He had come by to see "the murder house." More lurid sightseeing, Minogue snorted.
Joyce had drink taken. Not completely legless but intoxicated enough not to be sensible to the waking, official world. Michael Joseph Joyce told Garda Eoin Freely that he was on Mr Combs' property to see to it that "the horse was fed and watered." Garda Freely did not report that he laughed at this explanation. He did report that he promptly took Joyce to Stepaside Garda Station for further questioning. No questioning had been done of course. They had rung Hoey by then and Minogue had issued his edict. Heronsford, where Joyce was camped, was three miles and more from Combs' house. What really brought Joyce that far from home at that hour of the night?
Minogue sipped more tea. It tasted slightly of washing-up liquid. Garda Freely would hardly have called Joyce a Mister any more than he would have listened to the man's protestations last night. Joyce was, after all, a tinker. Tinkers were shifty, dishonest, cunning. They drank themselves into a stupor, they stole things. Tinkers left mounds of rubbish behind them when they moved their caravans to a new site.
Tinkers had to be taken in hand, evidently. Garda Freely was no different from any of his colleagues: no song-and-dance stuff, pick him up and make no bones about it. Let the social workers and the do-gooders blather on about "itinerants" or "travellers," the Gardai held the fort against tinkers.
Minogue paused at the phrase "currently residing." He imagined a leaky caravan or a canvas tent surrounded by bits of scrap iron and clothes, a gaggle of half-dressed children, treacherous mongrels growling under the caravan. They lived over a ditch and moved to a new ditch when they were thrown out of an area. Travellers, that's how they described themselves; and they usually kept horses or donkeys, if not by their camps, then with another member of their family. At thirty-eight, Joyce had lived the same portion of his expected life as Minogue, at fifty-four, had of his own. The settled Irish conferred very little romance on these descendants of dispossessed peasants. They were the starving losers in a run-in with Oliver Cromwell and his mounted metal men who hacked at the Irish by way of bringing in the Modern Age.
Tinkers like Joyce sent their women and children out to beg. O'Connell Bridge in Dublin usually drew a dozen of these'"shawled outlaws with ruddy faces cajoling and pressing for money or else sitting in the rain by a piece of a cardboard box with pennies in it. The men would go door-to-door, too, but looking for scrap iron. Wary householders generally held that tinkers a-begging at their door were really sizing up the houses for burglarising later.
Because of his gormless explanation, Michael Joseph Joyce nearly didn't get to go home to his Josie and his seven children. Had he actually entered the house? Unless he knew the Gardai had seen him, Joyce would hardly admit to that. Minogue put his mug of tea aside. Hoey was standing by Eilis' desk now.
"There's a reply from the London police on the telex. Do you want it?" said Eilis.
The afternoon stretched out ahead of him as he read the half-page telex message. If it was raining here in the city, then Kilternan and Glencullen would be awash. Combs had retired as a Customs Inspector, sold his house in a suburb of London and moved to Ireland. What would Joyce and his family, the seven children who were probably the survivors of a family which could have been twice that number, what would they do in rain like this? Her Majesty's Government sent Mr Combs a pension and the bank with the funny name sent him an annuity, which Combs had bought with some of the money from the house he had sold. Tinkers are like untouchables among us, he thought, a Christian country full of churches and priests and nuns and roadside statues… and people living under canvas in the ditches. The Sampson Coutts crowd said they'd be sending someone to look after Mr Combs' estate in Ireland and-
"Very quick off the mark," he murmured aloud.
"Who is?" Hoey yawned.
Minogue read the last sentence aloud and added in "Reply for attn. Inspector Newman. Rgds."
"What's 'rgds'?"
"He means'regards' I suppose," Hoey replied.
"Oh. So this policeman says that a bank is sending over a lawman to settle Mr Combs' affairs here… " Minogue's voice trailed off.
"That's banks for you," Hoey said vacantly. "Rob the eye out of your head and come back for the eyelasrk telling you you look better without it."
"Today or tomorrow, it says," Minogue said. Keating appeared at the door. Minogue promptly appropriated him and the radio car.
"Stepaside, Pat. And don't dally about," he said.
Moore was not detained in passport control at Dublin Airport. A middle-aged man with a skeptical cast to his face and glasses down on his reddened nose asked him if he was importing any plants. Had he been to a farmyard in the immediate past? Moore had been allowed to keep his clothes as cabin baggage along with his briefcase. He found himself precipitously outside Customs, looking down the hall at windows running with the downpour.
The airport could have been in Britain, he thought, when the plane had skimmed under the low clouds into a grey, green world. He noted signs in Gaelic on the sides of vans and on advertisements in the terminal. He saw no armed policemen or army. He noticed the two plainclothes police near passport control, though. They wore their indifference rather affectedly. Neither gave him more than a momentary glance.
Moore had never been to Ireland before. His only connection to the place was his surname. His greatgrandfather, a bricklayer, had emigrated to Britain in 1892, had married an English woman and had spent the rest of his lift happily becoming as English as he could. Moore's grandfather had bought some real estate and in two generations had brought the Moore family from provincial town builder to the appearances of landed money.
Moore rounded a partition and found himself facing a throng of people who appeared to be waiting to greet passengers off his plane. He looked at several faces. He felt he was on show. He gathered his wits and headed for the greater spaces of the terminal. As he followed the signs for the taxi rank, he shelved his efforts to put a finger on what exactly was so different about the faces here. He asked a woman who was leaning listlessly on an information counter how much taxi fare to the City Centre was.
"Why would you want to take a taxi?" was the reply.
"I have to make good time actually," he answered.
"To the Burlington Hotel? You wouldn't see much change out of a ten-pound note."
"That's near the City Centre, I understand," Moore said.
"And a bit more too, now. It's over the south side. Tell the driver to take you over the new bridge. Otherwise those fellas would drive you all over the country."
"Ah, I see," Moore said.
"Why don't you take the bus and save yourself a bundle of money?"
Moore telephoned the hotel to confirm his booking. Although it was almost one o'clock, he wasn't hungry. He stood by the window watching people running in from the rain, surrendering bags to the security check by the doors. A double-decker bus drew up at the stop outside and that decided him. He entered the bus, paid and opened out a map of the city. Combs' house was beyond the suburbs even, on the map for County Dublin.
Moore followed the bus route on his map as it made for the city centre. The driver was whistling in a dispirited way, losing track of the air and changing his whistle to one made between tongue and teeth. He stopped his whistling only to mutter to himself or to wipe condensation off the side window. As Moore was leaving the bus, the driver spoke to anyone who would listen to him.
"Ah, you'd be tired of all that sunny weather, wouldn't you?"
Moore got into a taxi at O'Connell Bridge. The Dublin he had seen while he was coming in on the Airport Road was a dishevelled, grey sprawl. There were kids all over the place, on bikes, running, walking in wet groups. From his street map he knew that the trip to the Burlington Hotel was a short one.
The hotel was a clone of every and any nondescript hotel that had been designed in anonymous American Vulgar. It was like an office block, quite without features local to where the developer had slapped it up. Moore thought that the taxi-man had gone less directly to the hotel than he could have, despite his protestations of roads being "up" and one-way streets. Moore declined an offer of help from a doorman with a florid drinker's face, a stage Irishman who probably even enjoyed donning the silly livery he wore. The gear reminded him of Emperor Bokassa.
Moore followed a young woman from the Reception. She flicked his room-key against her thigh as she walked. Her badge said Maura.
"That rain is down for the day," she said without turning to him. "As soon as I woke up and looked out the window this morning, I knew we'd be swimming in it all day."
"Yes," he said.
"That's Dublin for you," she added and showed a distracted smile while she watched the floors light up in the ascending lift. Moore was wondering how best to explain his business here in case the police asked. Would they know enough to wonder why Combs' bank had not simply called on a law firm here in Dublin to do the work? He could say, as Kenyon had suggested in his briefing this morning, that his firm prided itself on being on the spot promptly and that it had the necessary expertise to negotiate affairs in the new Europe. The European Economic Community and all that. He could deflect any curiosity by talking about how much new law membership in the EEC had brought with it. Even if they knew he was lying, they'd probably believe that he was boasting more than anything else, or greedily chasing commissions even outside Great Britain.
Maura stopped and unlocked the door into the room. Moore couldn't understand why she had led him. Why not give him his key and let him find his own way? He had already refused help from a doorman and a porter at Reception. Couldn't they take a hint?
She entered the room and stood to the side of the bed. It was clean, luxurious even. There was no smell of stale ashtrays from the last boozy travelling salesman either. Moore didn't hide his approval.
"It's nice, isn't it?" she said.
Moore snorted lightly at the incongruity of it all. What kind of a place was this where a porter or portress would stand in his hotel room and comment on the place? More amused than baffled, Moore agreed. She left without hanging around for a tip. He sat on the bed.
Yet again, Moore mentally rehearsed a scene where anyone might query his haste in coming to Dublin to settle an estate. At least it was easier than having to explain why he was there in the first place: inventory effects as soon as possible and thereby secure them for disposal later. Had to be tactful, though, about insinuating that an Irish thief might be a shade quicker off the mark or more heartless about breaking into a dead man's house and lifting stuff. Moore had heard of instances in Britain where thieves had kept an eye on death notices in the papers and plundered houses even as the funerals were taking place. He could mention that, and emphasise that it happened in Britain, of course. Of course… Plus the idea that Combs may have had valuables around the house.
Moore found the telephone book in a drawer. He didn't know what "Cuid a hAon" might mean, but the numbers were for Dublin. It took him two calls before he heard a woman with a thick singsong accent, but who sounded bored too, tell him that he had reached the Investigation Section. Moore glanced at the name in his notebook again as if one more look might finally tell him how to pronounce it now that he had to try and utter it.
"Sergeant Min-ogg, please."
"Sergeant Minogue?"
"Yes. May I speak with him please?"
Moore's gaffe with the pronunciation abruptly reminded him that his own accent was beginning to sound different to him. A foreign country, just off the coast of Britain?
"He's not here at the moment. You might leave a message."
"It's in connection with a Mr Combs. I'have just arrived from London to try and settle Mr Combs' estate."
"Give me your name and where you can be gotten in touch with," Eilis said instead.
Moore wondered if her offhand manner was typical of what he could expect from anyone else on the island.
"The Burlington, is it?" she asked.
"Yes. I'll be starting just as soon as I can, you see, and I need to okay it by the police rather than surprise them at Mr Combs' house."
Moore, like many other well-meaning Britons, assumed that a little humor oiled the wheels when dealing with the Irish on their home turf.
"You had better not stir as regards the matter until you meet up with Sergeant Minogue," Eilis said stonily. "I'll see to it that he telephones you within the hour. Is that good enough for you?"